The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on March 29, 1893 · Page 3
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

Algona, Iowa
Issue Date:
Wednesday, March 29, 1893
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THE UPPER BBS MOINJES, AGONA, IOWAvWEDNESt>AY;MATJCH 29. 1893, BT HUGH CONWAT, A Mhor of "Called Back.".Etc. Etc. t nc i aioeits, wno mcea tne nttie they nact seen of their niece, went into Solemn conclave on the request. They decided,'in the event of Sir Maingay giving his consent—on that point they were most exacting—she might come to them. Sir Mningoy raised no objections, so Beatrice Clausou came to Hazlewood House, where since her arrival, about n week ago, she had lived in a state of amused wonder as tlie amiable peculiarities of the "Tabbies" gradually revealed theinsulvee to her. . ... She had, of course,intended to make herself useful to her uncles. It may have been the want of some occupation, other than study, which made her turn her eyes to Hazlewood House and tlie two bachelors. She was no longer a schoolgirl, so at once broadly hinted tliat she was willing to regulate-their house! told matters. The silent horror with which llic proposal was received told.her, at o:?je, that her place was to be a sinecure. She saw that her uncles would on no account dream of intrusting their researches Into domestic economy to any hands save their own, and tlie surpassing capability of those hands was deeply impressed upon her, when, tlie day after her 'arrlval : she found Uncle Horace bending over the maid who did tlie plain sewing, and in tho paticntest and gravest way teaching- her the most approved fashion of handling aiieedle and thread. -.'• ' After buying lived at Hazlewood House for a \vcek' Miss Glauson must have been ready to welcome nny event of interest. It is no wonder that, when Horace Talbert, at Mr. Mordlo's suggestion, walked into the dining-room and told his niece what had happened, her curiosity and excitement rose to a high pitch. ' .;-.. . "Is it a pretty child?" she asked. "Wonderfully so.' Mordle and Herbert are petting it like a couple of women," Beatrice did not run at once to see for herself. "What do you mean to do about it, Uncle Horace?" she asked. "I don't know. I suppose we mustkeep it till to-morrow and see if the mystery Is explained. You had .better come out and give us your advice." Beatrice walked into the hall. The child had made great progress during Horace's absence. Tlie curate was tickling him and making him laugh. Herbert was stroking his bright hair in quite a paternal way. Even the respectable Wliittakerwas smiling pleasantly, "What a dear little manl" exclaimed Beatrice, as she walked to the table ar.d looked at the sturdy urchin. She was the first woman the child had seen since lie left his friends at the refreshment-room. Maid-servants, with the curiosi- 'ty of their sex and kind, had peeped surreptitiously over the balustrade, but had not attracted notice. At such a tender age as his woman is a child's natural protector. He at once quitted his stalwart friends and ran across the table to the fair girl, who smiled and opened her arms. The little man darted ' into them, and with a chirrup of delight laid his head on the girl's shoulder and scemo'd perfectly happy and at rest. He was so pretty that no woman could have refrained from caressing him. Miss Clauson kissed him again and again, then, like every one who • came near him, fell to stroking his golden locks and twining them round her fingers. The child's eyes began to close under her soft and soothing touches. "He must go to bed," said Beatrice, decisively. "Certainly," said uncle Horace. "Where had he better sleep?" "Jane has a most comfortable bed," said Herbert. Jane was tho parlor-maid, but Herbert In his housewifely capacity knew tlie quality of every bed in tlie house; even tho amount of bedding on each. Mr. Mordle. turned away. He was afraid of disgracing himself by a burst of ill-timed mirth. "No, no," exclaimed Beatrice; "he shall sleep with me. Look at him, 'uncle Horace, isn't lie a perfect cherub?" "He's a pretty little boy; but we don't know where he comes from, my dear. I hardly think you ought to take a strange infant to sleep with you." "Oil, nonsense, uncle Horace! See what a clean, beautiful boy it is. Whittaker, send a large can of hot water to my room. Come, my pet; I will see how I can act the part of a nurse-maid." Singing and crooning and carrying the child in tlie most approved fashion, Miss Clauson proceeded to bear her prize away. "You had better look at his linen, Beatrice," said Horace. "It may be marked with his name." After tills tho three men went back to the dining-ioom and talked the curious occurrence over and over. In about half an hour's time Beatrice reappeared with the. intelligence that the boy's clothing bore no mark of any kind. Indeed, it till seemed brand new. She was apparent ly much delighted with her new toy. She kept running up and down-stairs, to ascertain that her protege was sleeping the sleep of innocent babyhood. At last she went ,', away altogether. "Beatrice is more demonstrative than I believed her to be," said Horace, regretfully. Herbert echoed the regret, but Mr. Mordle said nothing. He thought the instinctive kindness she showed toward this mysteriously-sent child added another charm to the many he had already discovered in Miss Clauson. The three men sat together until it was too late to hope that matters would be cleared up that night. No mother,uo telegram came. The curate bade his friends good night, and walked back to his lodgings in the village, thinking what a charming picture Miss njauson with the child in her arms made. Poor Mr. Mordle! He had only known Beatrice a week, and was already beginning to dream a foolish dream. Tlie brothers continued sitting one on either side of the fire. They were not early-to- becl people. Now that they were alone they said little more about the arrival. For three hours they had been discussing every possible theory which might account for the child's appearance among them, so tlie subject was threadbare, and they sat in silence trying to invent fresh causes. Suddenly a most curious and startling suspicion entered Horace Tulbert's mind—a suspicion which now and again made him glance at his brother. Could Herbert by any chance know all about the matter? lie had certainly seemed greatly taken with tlie little boy. Horace remembered how much at homo the child had made himself with Herbert. How, when he, Horace, came out of the drawing-room with Beatrice, he had found Herbert stroking and patting the little head. Could there be romantic passages in Herbert's life about which he knew nothing? He pooh-poohed the thought; but it camo again and again. Just after one o'clock, and when the broth- era' were thhiklngof retiring, to their great surprise Boatrfi'.w^*jDpeared. She was in. Afl gone She had come down—of course (o hear if any news had arrived. Uncle Horace, with' his ej t3 fixed on Herbert, expressed his conviction that no news was meant to-arrive. Beatrice looked musingly into the fire. Her head was bent forward, her hands clasped round one of her knees. She made a pretty, almost classical-looking picture, no doubt duly approved of by those men- of taste, her uncles. ••;.,... "Then what will you do?" she asked, nt last. "We will wait until to-morrow, or tlie day after; then put the matter into the hands of tlie police,", said Horace decisively, . Herbert said nothing, so his brother's sus- .picions Increased. Beatrice rose, as If to say good-night. She stood for .awhile on the; rug, apparently intently interested in a series of tiny circles which she was describing with the point of one slipper. Presently she looked lip with a flushed cheek and spoke in a quick hurried way. "If nobody comes for tho boyw.ould you mind my keeping him?" "My dear 1" cried Uncle Horace, aghast. "Here?" She clasped her hands. "Oh, 'Uncle Horace 1" she said,. "I have, had such a dreary miserable life ever since I was seventeen. 1 'have nothing to do—nothing to live or care for. I could bo so happy with that dear child to look after. Come up and see him sleeping. Ho is the sweetest baby!" "Such nonsense, Beatrice!" Uncle Horace settled himself into his chair and showed oy tno action tnat a legion ot sleeping babies would not induce him to go and look at their slumbering forms. "Then, you come, Uncle Herbert. Ho is a prettier sight than any of your old masters." Herbert gave his quiet smile. He was of less stern stuff than Horace—that is, If either of tlie Talberts could be called stern. Ho suffered Beatrice to lead him toiler room; duly admired tho little stranger, then, with his niece, returned to Horace, After this manifestation of weakness Horace's unworthy suspicion was all but certainty, "You will let me keep him?" pleaded Beatrice. "I am sure you will." Horace made no reply to her unreasonable request. In their usual dignified manner tho two gentlemen made their preparations for shutting up, Beatrice went back to her room. "She grows very impulsive," sighed Horace. This time Herbert said nothing. As lie got into bed Horace Talbert told himself that Herbert knew all about the boy; lie also told himself that no power on earth should induce him to tax Herbert with this knowledge. A man's private affairs were his own property; he himself had laid down this dog-, ma must now stick to it; the more so because on a former, occasion ho had broken with Herbert for'six years because tlie latter had infringed on this rule. CHAPTKll V. MB. MOBDLK MAKES A RASH PROMISE. The next morning tlie Talberts did an unusual tiling; they broke one of their rules by opening their letters before breakfast. They had a time and a place for everything, and their time for rending their correspondence was with their second cups of tea. But so anxious were they to see if their letters contained anything explanatory of last night's occurrence, that the seals were broken at once. They found a couple of invitations to dinner, receipts for payments made two posts ago, the usual amount of circulars, tradesmen's list, aud appeals for charity; but nota word about tlie child. Thou the kettle was brought, and Herbert set about making the tea. Under some unwritten code of division of labor or honor, the younger brother always presided at tlie breakfast table. Presently Miss Clauson made her appearance with the child on her arm. She had washed him and dressed him, combed his hair into a wavy mass of burnished gold, and so brought him to tlie breakfast table fresh and sweet as a rose in June. She placed him on a chair beside her, by tlie aid of sundry cushions raising him up to a proper level. Having adjusted him to her satisfaction, she ordered bread and milk to be prepared. The Talbwts made no objection to Beatrice's proceedings, although they fancied the child would have been sent to breakfast with the servants. Being anxious to see him by daylight, they screwed their eye-glasses in place, and once more minutely inspected their sturdy little visitor. Even Uncle Horace nodded approval of his bonny looks and fearless bearing, whilst Herbert joined Beatrice in petting him. Tlie boy seemed happy enough in his new quarters. It is indeed a sad tiling to remark how soon a child forgets its motker. He cries because he misses warmth, food, or comfort—not on accoin.t of the absence of the being who has lavished oceans of love upon him. This particular baby, having been so cruelly descried, may perhaps bo excused for making the best of his changed circumstances, and laughing merrily when called upon so to do; but other babies cannot be absolved from the sin of callous indifference and non-reciprocation of love. Beatrice having ascertained that no news had arrived, said nothing that bore upon her startling suggestion of last night. Perhaps she saw that the bright saucy child Interested and amused her uncles; so, with the diplomatic gifts natural to her sex, judged it beUer to let tlie matter rest for a while. As soon as breakfast was over, she led the child away, and spent the remainder of tho day playing with and petting him to her heart's content. It really seemed as If Miss Clauson had found a new interest In life. And, to tell the truth, she was a young woman who appeared to want something to arouse her. She was now, at the age of twenty-two, very different from the girl who so hastily threw down the glove to her stepmother, Her quietness and undemonstrative manner, of which the Talberts so much approved, seemed scarcely natural to a girl with beauty, rank, and riches. For, indeed, she was beautiful; If her face showed no color, Its healthy pallor was more attractive to a right-minded man than all the rosy cheeks that ever existed. Her brown hair grew in great masses, and low down on her well-shaped forehead. Her eyes were gray —a strange wonderful gray—so deep in shade that most people would have called her dark- eyed. Her features were perfectly straight. Her face was oval. Her lips were just full enough to make her apathetic demeanor seem inconsistent with the dogmas of physiognomy. Beatrice Clauson was, In fact, a feminine, toned-down edition of the Talberts. The characteristics which were with them exaggerated, with her were reproduced in exactly the right proportions. Their faces were elongated ovals—her face was a proper oval. Their noses were straight, but too long-i-her nose was straight, and just long enough. They were, if anything, too tall—she was only tall enough to be called a fine girl. Miss Glauson's povsonal appearance was a living proof of how fitting had been the alliance between Sir Maingay Clauson aud old Talbert's daughter. The first Lady Clauson had been the counterpart of her brothers. Sir Maingay was short, ro.und-faced, and rather roun<l-bodled. Wr ^ '»* itrice, the blemishes whicii h^ fe^tr &. in |" her parents' good /rnisti 6 ^ of d , 8tin which the T were glad to think lt_came to her from tncir side of the family—lier father, the baronet, being like mdst baronets and other titled personages, a very ordinary-looking man. Ten to one, if'you goto a charity bailor ot'.icr mixed assembly, upon asking the names of the most distinguished-looking men you will find them nobodies. I never inquire now—it is too painful to be told that the noble-pres- enced man who smiles so condescending'..*- is Mr. Smith, whilst that'other insigiiilii-itni- looking being is Lord This or the Duke of That. It upsets one's cherished ideal as to what tlie aristocracy should be. Beatrice Clauson, then, was very fair to see, andlmd what silly people call u thorough-bred look. Fond as those amiable men, her uncles, were of the girl, she was doubly clear to them because that look was indubitably owing to the Talbert strain of blood in her veins. This morning she threw books, music, painting, everything aside, and played witii her new toy. It was Saturday. The "Tabbies," who invariably went shopping logt-t.'i- er, were bound to Blacktown to buy groceries. Before starting, Herbert found Ids way to Beatrice, and asked her if she had any commissions to be executed in the c'cy. Ho discovered her with flushed face and rumpled hair romping with the child. lie watched them with amusement, then, going up-stairs, found after a little search, in one of the attics, some antiquated, battered toys, which five and thirty years ago iiad been deaf 'to Horace and himself. Ho carried them down-stairs, and Beatrice thanked him for the kindly thought and net. When, in a few hours' time, the brothers drove back with a wagonette full of tea. cot- fee, sugar, ye'.low soap, houso fl:r.iiiel. Bath stone, emery paper, or whatever else was needful to make the wheels of household management run smoothly, they found Beatrice still engrossed by her chin-go. They did not say much to her. Saturday was too busy a day to think of anything save the iillmrs of the house, and as many precious minutes had been wasted in making inquiries at Blacktown station, the brothers were hardly pressed for lime—so hardly pressed thai, when, about four o'clock, the curate called, they sent their apologies by Wliittaker, and left their visitor to be entertained by Miss Clnusoii. The Ruv. Sylvanus Movd'e.when lie thanked Heaven for the many blessings it had bestowed upon him, always exceptcd the name he bore from the list. It was, he told himself, a particularly terrible name—doubly so when its owner was a clergyman. He felt it to be provocative of laughter, if not of contempt. Even as a Howard, a Talbert, a Montmorency, or a Plantagenet is called upon to live up to tho great name lie bears, Sir. Mordle found it incumbent on himself to endeavor to live away from his singular designation. To counteract the sinister elt'ects of such a name he felt compelled to aifect an air of cheerfulness even under the most trying circumstances which fully justify a man's louring lugubrious. He considered Ills name a great drawback to him in his professional career. The gift which every young clergyman fancies he possesses, of preaching impassioned sermons, was sadly shorn by his name. In this perverted age, when puns are not considered signs of social depravity,'Mr. Mordle felt sure that a tear in his eye—even the delivery of a pathetic sermon—would be fatal. The least lachrymose tendency in mamier or words would present too great a temptation to be resisted by weak human nature; in spite of the best intentions the word "mordling" must suggest itself. A surname one cannot choose any more than one can choose a dark or a fair skin; but whilst the curate was willing to allow that the name of Mordle was an unavoidable congenital misfortune, its conjunction with Sylvanus he looked upon as a foul crime, and reviled the godfathers and godmothers who had tacked such a soft-sounding appellation on to Mordle. On the principle of living it down, he was always brisk and cheery in his manner. It was never too hot, never too cold, never too sunny, never too windy for Sylvanus Mordle. He preached almost merry sermons, conveyed In short incisive sentences, rattled out in a quick, decisive, quite-beyond-doubt way. His phrases followed one another like the detonations of a cracker. They seemed designed to slap the listener on the breast, and hammer and hammer away at that sin-hardened receptacle as if meaning by a series of repeated blows to enforce conviction and obedience. They were crisp, strong, muscu-.- lar exhortations, eminently suited to .the. spiritual needs of the poorer parishioners. Only when, lie preached a funeral sermon could Mr. Mordle's style be caviled at. On such an occasion he was bound to be doubly, careful not to get his manner mixed up with- his name, so sometimes his discourse did not quite satisfy the bereft relations and grieving friends. . But a funeral sermon-was only due to a deceased member of one of the families of position; moreover, Oakbury is a healthy spot, and when an important- deatli did occur tl'.o rector .was usually In his place to do his duty. So the Reverend Sylvanus managed- very well. . For the rest, he was a man of, about thirty, pleasant-looking and popular, not disdainful of the good tilings .of this. world, yet not hankering after them—doing.the whole work of a curate and three-fourths of that of a rector, for one hundred and twenty pounds a year. It was lucky lip had a good constitution and a.small fortune of his own! This afternoon Mr. Mordle felt the Tal- berts' excuses no slight to himself, He begged the brothers might not. be disturbed. He was quite content that Miss Clauson should entertain him tetc-a-tete'ina long as possible. He inquired if any news had arrived about the missing mother; then, turning his attention to the child, went through a variety of those little actions which grown-up people, rightly or wrongly, suppose ingratiate children. Noticing how the pretty boy clung to Beatrice, he complimented her on her rapid conquest of his affections—a compliment in which Miss Clauson might have found a deeper meaning lurking had she cared to look for it. He would have called much earlier to learn what had transpired, but had been compelled to attend a funeral several miles off. He alluded to the melancholy reason for his delay with as much cheerfulness as many people mention a wedding. "And where are your uncles?" he asked. "In the housekeeper's room," answered Beatrice demurely, "Busy, of course—Saturday. Bad day to call. What are they about row? 1 ' As he jerked out his short sentences, Beatrice glanced at him and saw his eyes twinkling. She could not help smiling. "Well—what is it? 1 ' asked Mr. Mordle. The girl gave a little gurgle of laughter. The curate once more repeated his question. "Oh, Mr. Mordle," said Beatrice, "they are doing the clothes!" "Quito right; some one must do them. Now I wonder,'' he continued in a more reflective way than usual, "I wonder if they look them out for the wash on Mondays." "Oh, no; not so bad as that. But did you ever know anything so funny?" "Took you by surprise, of course?" suul, the curate briskly. ."Yes. * 1 had heard something about it, but the reality overwhelmed'mo. Uneluj Horace doing woolwork was my first experl-' enog. Tb£ next mowing I found Uncle H«- Bert doling out stores to the cook. And to see them manage the house better than any woman 1" ' "Delightful. I could tell you sonic very amusing things, Miss Clauson." "Please don't. They are so kind and nmi- able I can't bear to laugh at them." "They are kind. I love them dearly. What my poor people would do without them I can't think. If they'll leave you enough to do, you're certain lobe happy hero." Beatrice smiled. She remembered thr horror they had displayed at the bare thought of her having any'part in the domestic arrangements of Hnzlcwood House. It scorned to Mr. Mordle that he had never seen Miss Clauson look so bright and lively as she looked to-day. She looked most lovingly at the child, who, tired of his play, lay peacefully on her lap. "But I have not enough to do," she paid, her hand the while caressing the boy's gulden head. "Mr. Mordle, :I wisli you would help me in something 1 ." "Anything—everything—command me," said the curate in his quickest, most decisive way. "I have taken such a fancy to this dear little man, that, supposing his people do not reveal themselves, I want to persuade my uncles to let me keep him. I could he so happy with him here." She kissed and fondled the boy. Now that he saw whither his rash promise was to lead him, Mr. Mtmllo paused and hesitated. "1 am sure Uncle Herbert wouldn't mind," added Beatrice. "Jlr. Talbert would never consent," said Mr. Mordlo. "What harm would it do?" asked Beatrice. The Reverend Sylvanus was silent. lie did not like to tell the girl that the retention at Hazlewood House of this mysteriously- sent child might create scandal. "You will help me, will you not?" pleaded Beatrice. The look in her eyes turned Sylvanus's heart Into wax. So, with tho weakness of male humanity when thus assailed, he promised to do what he could to insurp hcr.wlsh being carried out. Beatrice gave him a look <»f gratitude^ tho very remembrance of which he felt would repay him for a much greater service than the one she entreated of him. By and by lie took his leave of her in that happy frame of mind peculiar to the man who has laid a lovely woman under an obligation. Horace and Herbert 1m did not see. They were detained for an Indefinite period. The linen paid in by thchuvndressdid not balance with the counterfoil in the washing-book, so they had to go through it again—an annoying, but a necessary task. (To be continued.) DEADLY TRADES. Somctliiug Concerning tho Alkali Mn mi- factories— Bleaching-]'owder Packers. Tho alkali works go on sill the your round, day and night. , Sunday and week days; and St. Helens and AVidnes are'tho chief scats of the manufacture if yon have a fancy for knowing how that part: of tho world lives which serves the industry thai Lord Beaconsfield used as his trade barometer, you will do well to gain admittance to the strange, and lucid scene whore. I lie prodigious procosse.s are ca.niotl on. says the Fortnightly Review. By the glow of the furnaces and the wavering light of an occasional gns jot you make out hit by bit a rough picture of uncouth buildings, gaunt frameworks of timber, ominous looking load chambers looming overhead, and a general confusion of towers, platforms, revolving and stationary furnaces, great caldrons where Hie caustic glows a sullen red; threatening looking tanks full of corrosive liquids, and other strange haH'-uninr.ito monsters which besot you as you pick your way along narrow' pinnies or nil-stall's half oaten away with acid. Those are lignres moving about the place, wheeling barrows tip the planks, standing at the furnace mouth, taming the white-hot mass with hi, wielding huge ladles at the Caustic, pots, raking, straining and laboring in a terrific heat: and glare and amid sick- oiiinig fumes, A man stops back from tho furnace now and again and lowers tho muffler from his mouth to grasp more freely iu the chill air, and you can soe his face, arms and chest shining with the sweat. Figures are to be seen by day which are scarcely recognizable as men, with groat: goggles over their eyes and huge protuberances of flannel cowled over their mouths and necks. Those are the men who pack tho bleaching powder. Tho powder packer, Ids feet incased in thick wooden clogs and his legs iu brown paper gaiters, slops into the chlorine chamber, shovels tho blenching powder into the cask, and presently shuffles out algaiii and unlashos his swiithlngis, gasping as though at death's door. There are some 15,000 men in the employ of the United Alkali company, including special process men and laborers. Tho story of. their daily and nightly toil Is told by the faces and forms of tho worn, dejected men you pass in the streets, by the deaths from respiratory diseases which carry off the strongest men before their time, by tho evidence of horrible sufferings from constant contact with the hiring lime, by teeth rotted away Uy the salt cake, fumes, by scare and sometimes blindness from caustic burning, by vitrolburns and by the deadly nausea from the gas inhaled, and the recurring exhaustion brought on by fearfully protracted toil. IN THE* WORLD. NOAV Under Construction Twelve Miles Through the Simploii Mountain. The longest, tunnel in the world will be thut now to be constructed through the Simploii. According to the final plans adopted it will have a length of 12.0 miles, or 3.1 miles more than the St. Gothnrd tunnel. The northern mouth will be situated about 2,300 yawls south of Brieg, at the little village of Im 'Rafn, and the southern GOO yards beyond Ivelle, just below the present wall gallery. About one-half of the tunnel 'facing north will have an incline of 1.5 per 1,000 yards just suf|> icent to causo the water to ruq while the southern portion. Incline of 0.5 pev },QOQ of that followed with the Arlberg tunnel, says the Now York Advertiser. Workshops and depots are to be established on the right, bank of the .Rhone, close to tho northeni entrance, at a cost 01 4.000,000 franco. The power of working required Is estimated at 1.4.~>n horse power, viz: 5^0 for boring pnrposip. 7SII lor ventilation and L' for electric lighting, etc.—I. o.. at the end of the tunnel alone, for which purpose the iJivcr Alassa is to be dammed up. At the southern side a similar station is to ln : established, \vhiicli is calculated lo cost :!.0<HO<MI francs and 10 furnish U.7HO horse power, derived from damming up the River Oair.-iscn. The tola ciist of I lie remaining works is estimated at SO.000.000 francs of which .•{(i.(M)O.(iOii francs are contributed by the various sfa.les interested in the scheme. In order to the undertaking a track is to lie laid on the road between Domcnlossola and Iselle. while in (lie borings are to bo used Hi'aiidl's rotary .boring machines. It. Is calculated that the work will occupy eight years and n half. 's HONAX/A. New- York Weekly: In the northern par! of Mexico are rugged mountain ranges, through which rim many seams of silver. Some of those silver voinn are very rich in the precious metal, and tho.v wore extensively worked in former days by (lie Aztecs, and perhaps l<v those who inhabited the country bo- fort! the Aztecs; but the mines have been disused for many years, chiefly because the warlike Apaches at the north would not permit the work to continue. Tho old mines still exist, however, with remains of the old works, and a number of Indians, hull' breeds and Mexicans gain a scanty living by work- lug in them and soiling sucli amounts of silver as they can dig out, with Ihoii-i rude tools. Poor and ignorant as these people are, tho.v have an ambition of their own and are continually animated by the hope thai, one day they may strike a. great lump of silver ore or a rich vein, such as would produce a fortune to one of them. A piece of good luck of this kind is called a bonanza, and those wretched miners in spite .oil their poverty and atllictions, are spurred forward and kept at work by Hie hope of a bonanza. They are very superstitious, as people always arc, and ninny | Strange and. wild Union are current i among them concerning the old mines,' which are supposed to be inhabited | by demons and the spirits of those who; once owned and worked them, who con-1 coal and guard the richest veins in the. iii'.miitains, preventing others from dis-j covering or using them. Xear one of those mines lived Manuel He wont farther in than he had over gone befoiv, creeping Ihrnagh a. narrow crevice hit i a passage that had not been explored during his remembrance. Hut it. was familiar to him, and he went forward as ins had done when tho bright spirits led him thither in Ins sloop. Kinalilv (he passage came to an end, and then ho recognised the spot, to which lie had boon brought in his dream. lie could not be mistaken. Tho appearance of the rock bad been indelibly impressed upon his memory, and he saw it all exactly as lie had seen it in bis sloop. There wore 'no angels to strike (lie rock and compel it to open, but I'oplto saw, <ui examining it closely, that it was not solid; that a maws of stones had been piled up to close the entrance. Ho grasped one of those with both hands and pulled it until it foil out. Then he was sure thai his dream luul not been n delusion or a nloro chance; thai angels had shown him tho spot in his sleep, so Hint lie might go to i' when he should a.wake. He could no' donbi that he was about to lind the hi-l vein, to discover (lie bonanza that was lo make (he fortune of his family. Then his father would be forced to toil no more, aud ills mother would cease to know pain and sorrow, and they would all have enough to eat and to drink and to wear and would Mvo happily over after. In his excitement lie worked very hard until lie was dripping with perspiration, and Ills limbs trembled, and the blood in his body mounted to his luvid. and his breath onmo thick and fast. Hul lie saw ihnt lie had succeeded in making a hole though the mass, and lie persevered milll ho effected im out ranee into the passage mouth was closed by the pile of rock. As lie pulled out the last largo stone it fell upon ids lamp, extinguishing and crushing It. This scorned a, dreadful calamity to I'opito, as he could not hope to explore .', the passage without a. light, and as it would even bo very diliieult. for him with the help of the yarn to trace his way back to daylight. Hul when he was 1 about to burst into tears a right light; appeared in the pas- sago, and tho path before him was plain. ditching up (lie hall of and ,,. ' unwinding it as In; went, lie followed the light as it led him along the passage farther into the mountain until it. rested against the rock In just such a cavern us he hud seen in his sloop. HoJ'oro him was a stream, of water that came from some hidden spring in tho mountain and found its way through the caves and crevices of the rock, no one knew whither. Beyond tho stream was the rocky wall of the cavern, Hashing and gloaming with Murioio with his wife Zaponota and bis ( ,,. vst|lls ()1 - (U1 . im „,„, Ull . ()| - sil sou Pepito. There habitation was a - .„„, ^ t] , ., , )|f , vc|n •„,„„,„„ thmusll Uj miserable hovel, and their food was of the coarsest and often voi'y scanty, and there was lil.tlo to make life desirable to them, /a-poiieln used to try and persuade her husband to leave- Hint place and try ills hick elsewhere, but 1 Manuel stuck lo tho old mine, believing Unit he would yet find a. fortune there. I Ho was encouraged in this belief by a I tradition to the effect; that a very rich I vein of silver was hidden in the mine,' and by the prophecy Unit the lost vein i would iigotln be discovered .by a. boy < who was pure of heart and free from I sin. Manuel knew, and so did Xnponctn, j that if then- ever lived a boy who was pure of heart, and- free from sin, such a ' boy was their son I'opito. He was a ' beautiful boy, aud his appearance was almost unearthly, owing to tho paleness of his features, his hirge eyes and serious countenance. Ho did not seem to belong to this world, and It: was tho opinion of those who saw him that IK; would not long remain in it. As for goodness, his parents had never known him lo lie guilty of a wrong act, nor had' they over'suspected him of an impure thought. If purity and goodness wore to discover tlie lost, vein, M'amiol was sure that it would bo found by moans" of Pepito. One morning, when tho hoy arose from his couch of straw, he told his in which, the silver lay In masses like lead This, then, was the honim/.tu. The lost, vein was found, and untold wealth ln|y almost within the boy's roach. Tho Miirieto family might bid farewell to poverty, and would thenceforth be haj>.- p.v if riches could make thorn so. IVpito stood still for a few seconds trembling all over with excitement, \ strange heal: filled ills body; breaking out. in intermittent, flushes, and fire seemed to How in ills arteries instead of blood.' Mis head swam, but through the mist lie saw the silver shining in the ' crevices of the rock. He had found the losl vein, and he wished only to secure a nugget of the silver and hasten back to Ins parents to delight them with the story of the treasure. He started to cross tho stream, although liis knees shook beneath him, and he was growing more dizzy, and tho fever Hushes came hotter aud faster than ever. The shining water dnto which ho stepped was deathly cold. His fever Hod in ah instant, and was succeeded' by a, mortal chilliness. Tho lire in his- veins was at once extinguished, and 1 they wore.filled \\itli ice. He gaspod ! valnljy for breath, and his head weighed 1 him down as if he had been a lump of' lead. It 'needed but two stops to cross the- and ho took only one of parents of a wonderful dream that bad| liltl(> ''rook, visited him in the night. Two bcauti-i 1ll( ' ln - Tlu ' n lll> MilllU "own rather than ful beings, whom he belipvod to U-j ^11, and lay there like a crushed flower,, angels, had come lo his bedside and I nl>s ' 1VH ' hl ""' wltl ''' 1111(1 his l)0<| y OJ1 ' beckoned him away. He had followed | lll(> s;lllu - with his outstretched hand: them to the old mine and further into I Wiping.a- groat lump of silver, the heart of the mountain than he had Manuel and Xaponeta, Mnrieto waited over gone before. At last they stopped u |j, m , f m . Pedro's return. They wore so anxious and eager that tlie hours seemed lo bo longer than they really wore. Tho wife was particularly uneasy and restless. She could not keep still. She tried to attend to some small duties about the hut, but found hoi-self unable to do anything. The husband sat near the door Availing and listening. Tholv glanced at each other now tuid •then, and) mnldcaistaod each other's at a spot, which he was sure he would recognize if he should over see it again. Heu'e they struck against, tho rock, and it opened before them, disclosing a, passage, which they f-iitcrod, and I'opito .followed them. A bright light went, before them until they reached a cavern, through which a stream of water ran. The light rested against the rock on the other side of tho stream, and Popito saw that the rock was full of shining silver. Then the angels ledhlm back through the passage, closing tho entrance behind him, and took him to the mouth of the mine, where he awoke. Manuel at once, perceived an angel visitation in this dream. He was sure | plied Manuel, that Pepito had been taken to the old ,.., . ,, mine in his sleep and had discovered tho lost vein. This was the bonanza that was to make tho fortune of the family, and he insisted that the boy should revisit in his waking hours the scene which he had sought iu his sleep. Zoponeta \vna not such an enthusiast as her husband was and feared that some harm might happen to her darling boy, but she finally yielded to Manuel's urgent entreaties and equipped Popito. with a lamp and ball of yarn. .< • The bay said farewell to Ills parents, received their blessings and bet oiit to search for the lost vein. At the m.outh of tho mine he' attached; the ytirn. to a piece, of rock and unrolled; he went 'along, so «s 'fo by thoughts, though they seldom spoke. "It. is not possible," said Zuponota, "that anything can harm him while the good angels have him in their charge." "They might be angry if we should lind him and Interfere with them," re- wo must seek Popito, for 1 can endure this no longer," said the mother after awhile, and they wont out together. 'With the aid of the yarn they Ir.iced his couse into the old mine, until they came to the hole in t lie--rock which; ho had'opened. They called him, but received 110 answer. The. lamp whiclii they can-lot! showed them the way into, the narrow and dark passage, at the end of which was a chamber of silver. There lay Pepito, partly hi and partly out of the 'water 1 —dead. AVh'en their grief had subsided, they ' tiwtiy SWl renlawl the shad uilea apvvu.

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